Famous
by Lorena
Summary: A monologue from Harry's POV. Harry contemplates fame, life, and Ron Weasley. Companion piece to 'Nobody'


Author's Note: This is a companion fic to "Nobody". Harry's POV. It kept nagging and nagging...so read and review!   
  
You're not supposed to fall in love with your best friend.   
  
I mean, in the wizarding world it's more acceptable than in the Muggle world, but still.   
  
Ron doesn't feel the same way I do. I'm sure of it. He doesn't notice the way I look at him. He doesn't know that when he wakes me from nightmares, more often than not they involve him, not Cedric. Because I don't want Ron to be the spare.  
  
That thought scares me more than anything has ever scared me before. More than Voldemort. More than Dementors.   
  
Ron is the first and best friend I've ever had. Back at Privet Drive, Dudley made sure that I didn't have a chance. Besides, it's a bit hard to invite a friend over and get them locked in the cupboard under the stairs with you. No, Ron's the first friend I've ever had.   
  
He and Hermione are two of the only people who see me as just Harry, not "The Boy Who Lived" or famous Harry Potter, but just me.   
  
"What about Sirius?" you ask. "Or Hagrid, or Dumbledore?"   
  
Sirius cares about me more because I'm my father's son than because I'm me. Really, he just sort of feels he has to make up for not saving my parents. It's only been worse since the whole thing with the Veil - he thought he abandoned me, even though he came back barely a month later. I still haven't asked him what was on the other side. He...he called me "James" when he first woke up, and I gave up on the whole thing then and there.  
  
Hagrid... yeah, Hagrid sees me for me, but he also expects me to be the great hero anyway. Like I have to be because I'm me. Dumbledore understands, sort of. But he also expects me to save the day every time and go on, be strong no matter what happens to me. Because he can live through anything and come out with a sense of humor I have to be able to as well.  
  
Sometimes, even Hermione gets caught up in all that. She's helped me through some hard times, yes, and she lets me be myself, but when everyone is watching, she expects me to be be a savior as much as the others do. She once told me I had a "saving-people thing," and you know, she's entirely right. But it didn't occur to her that I have a "saving-people thing" because other people have shoved it on me.  
  
Everyone but Ron.  
  
He's the only one who knows that I haven't slept a full night through since the Third Task in fourth year. He's the only one who's heard me cry - even if it was only once - about what happened, about all the things I should be able to do, but can't seem to. He's the one who holds me together when all I want to do is fall apart. When the pressure gets to me, he's there.   
  
Ron always has a joke ready to make me feel better, to reduce things back into proportion. Ron always stands by me through everything. Ever since that article Rita Skeeter wrote about me being "Disturbed and Dangerous", a lot of people have been giving me funny looks. He's ignored them more skillfully than I have. But when some Slytherin had the nerve to quote it at me, he punched the guy's lights out.   
  
He's been really protective ever since Voldemort returned, like if he lets me out of his sight I might not come back. And he doesn't worry because I'm a hero, he worries because he cares.  
  
I couldn't live without him. I really couldn't. I'm not sure he realizes that.   
  
I tried to tell him, once, when I woke up, yet again, scar burning, shaking with leftover terror. He cradled me close, whispered in my ear that I was safe, he was there, wouldn't let Voldemort touch me...  
  
I tried to tell him then, I really did. Everyone deserves to know that they're loved, and Ron more so than most. But, looking into his deep warm eyes that remind me of chocolate - the only thing that can force away the cold sick shaking Dementor-feeling in my chest - the words wouldn't come, and all I could do was rest my head on his strong shoulder and hope he understood.   
  
I don't think he does. At least, he doesn't know that I space out sometimes, not because of some horrible flashback to Voldemort's return, but because I've gotten lost in his eyes. He doesn't know that when I blink and nearly miss a Blduger on the Quidditch pitch, it's because his hair caught the sunlight and sparkled at me like a flame. I'm drawn to him, the pale-dark moth to his brilliant fire, and I don't know what I'll do when I inevitably get close enough to singe. I love him, though, so I suppose I'll deal with that when it happens.  
  
And in the meantime, I'll keep wondering if he tastes like cinnamon, the way I imagine he does.  
  
Finis 


End file.
